


A Chronicle

by AveAwan



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AveAwan/pseuds/AveAwan
Summary: A Fanfiction about people enduring great stress, as seen through the eyes of Amelia Van Der Negge, a survivalist.





	1. Prologue: New Arrivals

The carriage rattled as if it were on the verge of disintegration as we came down the long, darkling cobble road that lead to the old estate. I was playing with my balisong, frequently looking up to glare at the other inhabitants of the vehicle,as the coachman's mad and maddening cackling pierced the turbulent silence at intervals, like thunder on a rainy night. To my right was that pillar of disease and strength, clad in white robes and wearing a golden mask. I had seen others like him in my home when the plague had come. Lepers, holy warriors, dustmen that made their bodies into violence when nature would have them rot and fall apart. Skin lesions covered him, from what little flesh could be seen beneath his holy garb. What a curious response it was in these men, that they should be so terribly cursed by their creator with disease and deformity, and then turn to that same creator for guidance and forgiveness. Masochists. Madmen. The Leper readjusted his mask, grunted, and went back to whispering to himself, inaudibly.  
Opposite was another robe-clad man, though he was of quite a different persuasion. Swarthy with a little goatee was he, and a turban atop his head. The way he cradled the skull and the books he carried in his arms had me peg him for an occultist, from the far off land that worshipped the end of the world and those that would bring it. The sanguine robes were those of a scholar from those lands, I had been told. One who had chosen, that rather than worship the gods of their land, they would study and deal with them, like a mortal employer. This too was a type of madness to my mind. What sense did it make to contract the incomprehensible as if they would treat you as a fair partner? Whatever deals made with a higher power would inevitably come out against you. Like tricking children. He was smiling cheerfully and tapping on his skull as we bounced and bounded along the trail. In his dark eyes, deep purple formed and disappeared at the iris, a giveaway of his contract with a higher being.  
"Why so glum friends? We'll all be worms soon enough!" he said with a stupid grin on his face, yellow and black teeth like whalebone exposed. The Leper grunted. I did nothing but stare, and his compatriot gave a short sharp laugh.

  
Now his compatriot, sat next to him, looked interesting. Across her lap, in a scabbard as long as her leg, was a curved sword. Curved swords such as hers were unusual, and it gave her away as hailing from that same desert land of death-worship as the scholar in crimson robes. Her robes betrayed her position in that society. Much like the fellow to my right, she was a leper and a warrior of the faith. However, there was an operative difference of purpose. Ones such as her did not see the leprosy as a curse, but as more of blessing. As if they were touched by their gods, allowing them to become the living incarnations of death, the death that was the earthly will of their gods. Her face was hidden too, behind a chainmail mask, but within her eyes were visible. Vibrant and purple, near glowing, piercing and blank. Due to the gauntlets she wore her hands were not visible, but there were moments where her azure robe would pull back and reveal a gap, a forearm. I could not properly believe what I saw in these instances, and could never be truly sure if what I saw was really the case. It was almost as if her left arm, beyond being leprous, was composed of some kind of...exposed muscle, or thickly twisted meat-rope. Looking at it caused a terrible quarreling in my belly, and I averted my gaze before too long. She did not speak, and did not move, simply sitting there, staring straight ahead, with those powerful purple eyes. Of all the madmen moving towards the Estate in that carriage, it was she who most discomforted me.  
There was no conversation, beyond the occasional chirping of morbid platitudes from the scholar, and the only consistent sound was the unsettling death rattle of the carriage. I looked out the window and into the forest, thick with trees and with that curious aura of decay that came with places touched by the old gods. I had once made my home in such a place, spending my days foraging and fighting for food and my nights curled up under my bed, waiting for assassins and monsters to come and snatch me from it. Years I had spent in that place, alone, fighting for survival every day and waiting out every night in near sleepless terror. I would fear occasionally that I was going strange, my healthy paranoia going wild and out of control, consuming my thought and action. Then I did what I was running from, and I knew for sure that I had. Knowing that I was heading to the old estate only confirmed the fact. I thought about home, and I thought about how it had shaped me, and then I thought about the pain in my finger and the blood running down my hand, as I was brought back to the present by my balisong gliding over and slicing open my finger, my usually fluid motion disrupted by the thoughts. I sucked on it, coppery taste flooding my mouth. The scholar's hungry, dazzling eyes focused upon me, and his cheery grin grew into a predatory smile.  
"Say friend, would you spare some? I am short on reagents," he said. I glared.  
"Can't do that friend, I haven't the faintest what you could use it for, and I know it wouldn't be anything good," I intoned, every word dripping carefully injected poison. There was a flash of distaste across the scholar's face, before his previous grin returned.  
"No worries, no worries at all!" he replied, in that all too chipper voice. I slid my balisong back in my inner jacket-pocket, back with the others, and waited for the coach to stop, finger in my mouth.

  
After some time, the coach did come to a stop, miraculously in one piece, and we stepped out in single file. Lined up, we awaited the mistress of the estate. She was a newly arrived noble. Austere and pragmatic, the villagers said, the very picture of her grandfather, the man who had led their lands to ruin. Though the village was discontent, her expeditions brought the materials needed to rebuild, alongside the treasures that had once been lost, and so her presence was tolerated for now. Still in silence, with nothing to discuss, we stood, backs straight and ready for hire. From the manse steps she came, the clicking of her boot-heels upon the cobbles piercing the atmosphere. Robed in the tatters of what was once a formal dress, hair wild and tied up behind her head, half-moon spectacles high up on her nose. She was like nothing I had ever seen before. Pale as moonlight and twice as cold, with high cheekbones and a soft jaw. Amber eyes looked us up and down in judgement, and her high birth was obvious in the way she carried herself as she strolled between us, reserved and with a sort of innate power. She seemed to note our equipment with interest, and demanded knowledge of our individual skills and talents. Diseases and mental sickness was asked after, along with immunities and virtues. After assessment, she cracked a calculated smile.  
"You are all welcome to live within the manse. Your equipment, training, room and board will be paid for. Recreation will be supplied. In exchange, you will journey into the withered remains of the Blaecleah family estate to reclaim what you can, facing madness and death. You are aware of the conditions, or you would not have sought this place. Do you agree to such a contract?" She stated, questioned, all calm and detached. We nodded in accidental synchronicity. Foolish creatures, all of us. Her smile grew in a way that made my sleeping heart open one weary eye.  
"Very well. Welcome then, to Blaecleah Manse, your new home, and welcome to the Blaecleah Reclaimers, your new family. I don't learn names until you have succeeded in surviving at least one expedition, but I would recommend you acquaint yourself with eachother and the others around town, for the sake of social grace and ease," she continued, then turned calmly, and drifted back up to the manse in ethereal beauty.  
The scholar turned to me, grinning still, seemingly enthused by the induction.  
"So, friend, what is your name?" He said.  
"Amelia," I said, after some hesitation, "Amelia Van Der Negge, and you?"  
He held out his hand to shake, and I took it after consideration. His grin became wolfish once more, as he spoke.  
"I am Ajjak Karajam, a royal occultist of Kara," he bellowed proudly, then retracted his hand, scurrying up to the manse. His companion and the leper followed. I realised too late that I had shaken his hand with my bloodied one.


	2. Week One, Making Acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia Van Der Negge adjusts to life in the village, and meets her compatriots.

The village that lived in the shadow of the old Blaecleah estate was a run down and rotten husk of a place indeed. It did not seem one could walk through it without being disturbed by sorrowful cries and the scurrying of rats and other overgrown parasites down the alleyways. Every building was missing a wall, a window, or a door, and nothing was complete. It was a skeleton of a town, and those that inhabited it never made efforts to meet us. They seemed to be gripped by a collective territorial anxiety, and with good reason it; it was rare, from what little information I could gather, that those who arrived in town did so with their health or sanity perfectly intact. Only the diseased and the malformed, in both mind and body, would come to this place. I made no excuses for myself in this regard, and understood why they might avoid me. I spent much of my time in the manse, paying back the great sleep debt I had accumulated in my short life. My dreams were often haunted by visions and nightmares, things I had done and things I feared I would do. They did little to affect me these days. There is a point where one has been steeped in the horror of oneself for so long, and so alone in it, that one becomes desensitised to such internal noise and quarreling.

The meals we were given were simple, simple and well made. Steaks, bread, potatoes and root vegetables. Staple foods and what additional supplements could be bargained off the farmers of these lands. A low investment diet. Our quarters were often cramped, sleeping in dorms rather than rooms, with no effort made to organise or designate space other than by the occupants. It seemed as though we had come at a time of low habitation, though, as the dorms seemed only equipped to house nine of us, and only four of the other beds and cabinets appeared to be occupied. Immediately there was some obvious clues as to the nature of the inhabitants; on one side were symbols of the church that worshiped the light, surrounding two adjacent beds, along with whetstones and prayer books. No doubt we had been preceded in arrival by some self-righteous sorts, the crusaders and vestals who came to this place in penitence, or as a test of their faith. What foolishness. What madness. Coming to this place of choking, everpresent dark, to garner the favour of that which could not see you it? Like taking actions a lover would never see for approval you would never earn.

I turned my attention away from my distaste for these slaves of the faith and onto the other two occupied beds. One was stripped bare and bleached clean, and suspicious fumes rose from the cabinet beside it. I recognised such obsessive cleanliness and asceticism as the marks of a plague doctor, as many had taken up positions at home when the plague had come through. The last bed, though clearly slept in and occupied, bore no obvious signs of the inhabitant, other than a scroll tied shut, and a sack of coins. A highwayman perhaps? Or a bounty hunter? Time would tell, as our predecessors, the earlier arrivals, were at the time deep within the bowels of the ruined estate, picking through bones and dust for treasure, tribute and tokens of any value or worth. Soon after they returned, it would come time for our lashed together party to descend and commit ourselves to the same morbid and suicidal task. No avoiding it. No sense in avoiding it. Though it was only now becoming real in my mind, it was what we had come here for. I recalled the environmental sickness I had seen in the course of our arrival, and shuddered. No matter. I had survived many things prior, and this place would not be the death of me unless I allowed it to be.

I considered, occasionally, attempting to initiate contact with our fair lady of Blaecleah, but found windows of opportunity to do so lacking. For it seemed that the fair lady, so obsessed with her great task and ambition, rarely left her study to grace us with her presence, taking her meals within and sending out runners when she was in need of presenting a message. Truly a noble, she was, and according to fleeting conversation I caught from the villagers while skulking about, truly her grandfather's child. The way they spoke of her showed a great discontent, and an even greater fear. Many had, not so long ago now, lead platoons of barely organised farmers and smiths into that great estate upon the hill, bearing torches and whatever weapons could be scrounged from workshops and homes, in an attempt to cleanse it of the grandfather's foul rot. He had done much in his life to ruin this place. Though the true extent was unknown, there were scraps of scripture and record that gave some inklings. Cannibalism. Necromancy. The seeking of eldritch truth and the sacrifice of all things good and human in the pursuit of it. An indefatigable purpose and search for knowledge and power that lay outside the grasps of good men; men who would not go to such horrifying lengths to attain their goals. I had heard Ajjak talk to his zealous compatriot with stars in his eyes when thinking of the ancestor. I could not bring myself to trust that one. Friendly enough to be sure, but I could not shake my natural distrust and the unease he instilled in me. Every interaction felt like a thin sheet of lamb skin pulled over wolfhide, and near every time the disguise would fall away and I would see the beast that lurked beneath it.

I could not avoid thinking about how he had managed to acquire my blood, and I grew more anxious by the day thinking around it. What terrible rituals and plans he had in store for it I could not know, and I had before felt the sting and the bite of falling too easily prey to blood magicians and their foul ways. I feared some day I would wake to find that the blood that remained within my body would freeze and I would no longer be able to move, or that I would find my actions no longer my own, as Ajjak pulled invisible strings, making me dance like a puppet with his nefarious and nebulous means of control. I could not bring myself to confront him about it, lest I speed my fate forth, and I could not bring myself to stop thinking about it, with the fear often rearing its head when I had a moment of thought to spare for it. As a result, I had taken to keeping myself busy when I was not asleep, visiting the various facilities that were housed within the bosom of the village square, circling the only physical monument that remained of the late Lord Blaecleah; a statue, too enshrouded with eldritch truth and too infamous to be torn down, all those who would do so fearful of attracting the ire of some incomprehensible beast or demon. I had occasionally, in the dark of night and illuminated only by the lunar rays, spied the fair lady walking down to it, seemingly paying her respects to the man and looking sadly upon the monument. Her lips would move, but I could not make out what she was saying, despite the deathly stillness of the night. I never had an opportunity to ask her about it, and would not if I could; some things learned were best kept to oneself, for fear of drawing attention and distaste.

The blacksmith and the guild refused to hone my abilities or equipment , despite having the facilities. They stated that the fair lady refused to pay for equipment or training for reclaimers until they had proven themselves. It did make sense, they said, to invest little in those who may prove themselves to be damp squibs and useless roustabouts, rather than splurge for every single wayfaring vagabond that stumbled their way into a position in the reclaimers. I had to refrain from arguing the point that equipping new recruits may be necessary to their survival, and left both places with a bad taste in my mouth. It was fine, I reasoned, it would just make surviving the first expedition undertaken all the better as a test of tenacity, and a better way of proving myself to Lady Blaecleah. That had comforted me at the time, and for whatever reason I found my thoughts consumed with a want to please Lady Blaecleah, to prove my worth to her. Such foolish loyalty to an employer that obviously carried no personal care for me was a stupidity that I cursed myself for every day I was there, and yet...Yet I could not take my thoughts away from that smile of hers, or her moonlight complexion, or the way she carried herself. She featured in the more pleasant parts of my dreams once or twice, before being eviscerated or carried off by whatever horror occupied them that night. My heart had led me astray before, and it seemed intent upon making a habit of it.

Just as my heart lead me to obsess over the fair lady, I was also lead to study and consider the zealot by gut fascination. There was something wrong with her beyond her leprosy, I was sure of it. I had never observed her eat, and I had yet to see her sleep or wake up. Her robes never left her form and her helmet was never slipped from her head. Even the leper, who I had come to find was called Ezekiel from spying the letters he would write, removed his bandages to replace them, and dropped his mask occasionally when he believed no one was watching, revealing that scar-tissue coated and noseless face of his. But the zealot refused to remove her garb, even when she thought herself alone, and seemed devoid of worldly need. She talked to no one but Ajjak, which felt to my mind more suspicious than even Ezekiel's obstinate silence. If I asked Ajjak about their conversations, those whalebone teeth would flash wide into a smile as obviously insincere has the pacifying claims of ignorance he would spout from behind it. I had resolved on Wednesday to find as much as I could about her, and come Sunday found myself bereft of any new information. I did not even know her name.

Sunday night, I fell into an uneasy sleep, even more uneasy than normal, as I knew that tomorrow, we would be taking our first steps into the ruins. I considered my team mates. The eldritch scholar, the zealot of death, and the pillar of disease.

I didn't trust a single one as far as I could throw them.


	3. Week Two, Dimming Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first excursion, into the crypts.

We received the summons and call of duty in the early morning of Monday, and were expected to be ready by noon. I was the first to arrive before the mouth of the ruin, a great arched and lantern lit mausoleum entrance, indicative of its morbid purpose. By it, Lady Blaecleah stood impatiently. Upon noticing my arrival, she smiled, softly and coldly, and gestured towards a row of packs upon the floor. Wordlessly, I took one, and took a seat. Waiting for the other three to arrive. While we waited, I stole glances at the fair lady, and thought of questions I may have for her. None came to mind immediately. Periodically, she would pull a timepiece from the winter coat she was wearing, as noble and tattered as her dress, and would make to check the time, sigh, and then pace. It was not that the others were late; indeed, I had arrived a quarter of an hour early. It seemed that she simply expected them to arrive early, as if there was an unspoken expectation of over-achievement, with no real promise of reward for such a mindset. Luckily for her, I suppose, I found myself all but incapable of not striving to be the top of our ragtag little pack of seekers. I stole the chance to talk to her while I could.

"Lady Blaecleah?" I started, attempting confidence and falling noticeably short in tone. She snapped out of her pacing and periodic impatience and looked at me, blankly.  
"Yes?" She said expectantly, eyes focused on me attentively. I grasped for a topic.  
"What should we prepare ourselves for in these ruins, specifically?" I continued, cautiously, "As I am aware of the estate being home to all manner of inhuman and human beasts, but I am also aware that different caverns house different quarry, so what are we to expect beneath the old manor?" I finished, averting my gaze from her placid and distant face. She sighed.  
"I'm sure by now you have heard tell of my grandfather's heinous deeds? Of his necromancy, and his diabolic dealings and his studies of all things forbidden and dark, even to those men and women of Kara and Tarsk? Well, the focus of his experiments into the resurrection of the dead were the family catacombs, where my ancestors bones and bodies were enshrined in great reverence. A reverence not shared by my grandfather," she exposited with only the slightest hint of shame and sorrow, her gaze set upon the ruin mouth, and hands clasped behind her back. The Blaecleah family's reputation for stoicism and uncaring natures preceded them, yet here was their young scion, impacted by the defilement of a few old corpses and dozens of scattered bones. It was a curious sight to see.  
"So what you may expect down there, Miss Van Der Negge, is the walking, aggressive remains of my ancestors, brought into animation by perverse and arcane science," she finished coolly, her composure regained, and with the slightest edge to her voice. Looking up to her, I nodded wordlessly to show my understanding, as she met me with a gaze softer than her voice. I had known such tactics before. Velvet gloves hiding iron fists. Blades in sheaths. I took the look as a warning sign, and began to busy myself with my crossbow, and considered what role I would play in our party. Ezekiel and the zealot, the most physically impressive of our squad, would likely up take a forward position, ready to deliver blows and receive them in turn from whatever lurkers we would find in our pursuit of lost gold and trinkets. Ajjak would be mending wounds in battle, no doubt, and providing some support to the efforts of our vanguard, eldritch means applied in both the process of harm and restoration. Without an enemy that could bleed, and with a filled vanguard of our squad, it likely therefore fell upon me to target the monstrous backlines, taking quick and dirty shots to the head of the shamblers that would come for us. I could handle that. For a first mission in fact, that should be too easy, constitution likely to remain untested and movement likely to be near non-existent. I calmed my nerves with this overconfidence as I waited for the others to arrive.

Ezekiel came next, and said nothing. He simply stood ready for orders until the fair lady noticed him, and he was also directed to pick up a sack. Strangely, he chose to sit beside me afterwards. I expected him to stink, and stink he did. Of soap, and lavender, and holy incense and all manner of artificial purification. It was endearing in its own way, to find he was so conscious of how he might smell to others if he did not take pains to improve it, as well as remaining conscious of his startling and unnerving appearance. It showed a care for the senses of others, beyond a loathing for the self. Stock still he sat, silently too, and staring straight ahead, oddly conscious of and simaeltaneously inattentive to my presence. I considered attempting to speak to him, much as one might talk to an inanimate object in a time of solitude, just to believe something was listening. I refrained, fearing how it would make me look to the fair lady. I rummaged around in my sack, and found that I had been loaded down with torches and shovels, with space to spare. I was likely to be carrying treasure, I reasoned, and felt oddly relieved at the thought. At least the weight I carried would not grow, as we would likely be burning through torches as fast as we would be accumulating riches. After some hesitation, I rummaged through Ezekiel's sack, and found it empty, save for a few parcels of provisions. Eerily, he turned his head to look at me as I did so, but said nothing, simply staring with those watery, sad eyes, barely visible behind the golden, fanged mask. When I was done, I sat back up straight and closed the sack.  
"Apologies," I said quietly. To my puzzlement, he responded, though only with a nod.

Ajjak and the zealot arrived next, in tandem, their presence first made clear by Ajjak's far too loud voice speaking in an attempt at a hushed manner to the zealot, in that most incomprehensible foreign tongue of Kara. As they crested the short hill that lead to the mouth, Ajjak became quiet, and they walked in silence. Both bowing before the fair lady, they took their packs and stood by for orders, Ajjak uncharacteristically reserved.  
"Alright, as you are all here, I wont keep you long. The ruins you will be entering contain two things that you, as reclaimers, have sworn to handle for me; parasitic abominations that infest my family home, and innumerable treasures abandoned and lost to the hands of these things. Your job is to, with the aid of the provisions I have supplied for you, journey into these catacombs and slay these vermin whilst recovering these treasures, all the while reclaiming my family home. Is this quite clear?" She stated neatly, and was met by a chorus of nods. With a satisfied smile, continued.  
"I will not ask you to attempt the entire catacombs, or even remain within for a week without camp. However, I have provided one of you with a map of a segment of the catacombs. You will explore this segment to the best of your abilities, and return with a more detailed version of this map, as well as any treasures you locate along the way. Are we clear on this also?" Again, she was met by a chorus of nods, and we were provided with an even greater smile, one that formed crinkles in her dimples either side of itself.  
"Very well, then off you go," she said, gesturing briefly to the mouth before striding off smartly, back to the manse. We turned out collective attention to it, took formation, and delved into that ruinous place of decay and filth.

The smell was curious. Dust hung heavy in the air and dust devils surrounded us as our crusade continued, Ezekiel holding the torch aloft and leading the way, broken blade resting on his shoulder. There was a curious combination of sterility and decay all around us; the remains were far too old to have even the most minute iota of flesh cling to them, and many of the ancestors that remained still as the grave had long been reduced to ash. That was all that was left of what was once here, it seemed. Dust and ash, dust and ash, the fate of all great things given time. I tried not to focus too much on our surroundings though, despite my perceptive instincts and nature. The whole place felt wrong. Like an ambush waited in the shadows of every corridor. Like the crumbling and cracked stone was waiting to collapse on top of us. Like the darkness itself made to smother our flame and us too, constantly battling against the gradually dimming torch. I found myself periodically and near-obsessively striking up another when the light began to fade, fearful in the extreme of what might become of us if we were not on top of our guard at all times. My companions took no pains to complain about my reliance upon the light or my ready use of our provisions in this way.

We encountered Blaecleah's ancestors, to be sure. All reduced to skeletons now, but undeniably animate. They made terrible, obvious noises when they were near, and seemed to be always lying in wait for us as we made our way from room to room, looting what treasure remained. The cracking and grinding of bone sliding over and against bone. The clicking they made amongst themselves, as if communicating in some guttural, tongueless language outside the comprehension of those still cursed with life. They fell easily enough, but their attacks were felt. The remains of the servants, buried with their decadent masters, carried cudgels, and struck with strength far exceeding that suggested by their forms. Nobles whose stately regalia had long outlived their flesh, carried chalices of suspicious wine and the stilettos that had likely won them high positions in the court before their demise, and used both to terrible effect. Though Ajjak tried his best to weave his obscene incantations in such a way to mend our flesh as quickly as they were tearing it apart, he could do little for our mental states, which degraded and slid closer to breaking with every encounter. How could we reclaim such a desolate and destitute place? How could we fight such incorrigible and uncaring foes? It seemed that the Blaecleah family cruelty persisted even in death, as I could almost hear the vile bastards cackling at us from behind the walls as they closed in. 'This is our home' they said, 'it always has been, and always will be, and you will never displace us'. I found myself looking behind me often, and obsessed with the advance, filling with concern at the prospect of drawing out or slowing the pace of our mission.

Meanwhile, Ezekiel held strong in stoic silence, striking down foes with ease and cleaving them apart with that rusted, sharpened slab of metal I would hesitate to call a sword. I found myself looking upon him in newfound admiration, much to my embarrassment. The way the nobles would sink their stilettos deep into his ribs, and he would take but a moment to collect himself, shielding me with his form in the process, before proceeding to bring his blade down on their yellowing skulls, smashing them into fragments and returning them to nothing but piles of disparate bones. It gave me an odd joy. I despised being treated like a weakling, but there was something in the way he would use himself as a bulwark that showed he did not think of it like that. It was as if he just saw it as a necessity. Like it was his place, and his virtue, to be wounded and to wound in turn, and that he would not be robbed of this purpose. Though I had my distaste towards blind faith and belief, I could not help but take a shine to the sincerity and dedication he gave to his, acting with utter dedication and resolution. It reminded me of my own determination and stubbornness, and encouraged me to hold fast. 

The same could not be said of Ajjak, who also seemed to rely upon his faith heavily when great mental stress was put upon him, and acted in service of it gladly. What had been platitudes in the carriage became battle-cries and prayers to every terrible thing that could hear him, every execution a sacrifice to their dark hunger. The same could be said of the zealot, who would wordlessly annihilate all foes that came close with that curved blade of hers. She moved with such speed and power as to put Ezekiel's lumbering swordplay to shame, yet she did not comfort me with her ability. She was simply too...reserved. She showed no signs of horror at the sight of terrible things, and gave no reaction when struck, only continuing whatever onslaught she was in the process of at the time. Ajjak and the zealot simply seemed too enthusiastic about the horror of our situation for me to take any comfort in their company. Indeed, it only served to confound and worry me further, adding to the strain I felt at all points within that charnel house.

We were running out of torches and food by the time we had reached and cleared the last room, holding onto our minds with the slightest thread. Our packs, once filled with provisions, were now weighted with artifacts of all sorts. Gold, crests, portraits, gems, busts and deeds all we had found in our expedition here. It was a lucrative haul to be sure, and I hoped that the fair lady would find it enough, trying to avoid wondering if it was worth the toll it had taken upon us. We made our way back to the surface, exhausted and all bearing our fair share of wounds, to find that it was dawn. When we returned to Lady Blaecleah, and gave up our tributes, we asked after the day, and she told us that it was Sunday, a week from when we had left. That felt impossible. We could not have been in the process of our grim task for that long, for none of us had slept. It had felt closer to twelve hours, at most. When I raised this with the fair lady, she gave me a patient and polite smile.  
"Due to my grandfather's occult meddling, and the presence of the portal beneath the old manor, time has become somewhat...warped, within those tunnels," she explained. "as a result, you may feel you have only been down their for an hour, only to find a day has past, or conversely you may be down there for a day and find only an hour to have proceeded without you in the world above," she finished, and as I was trying to comprehend the implications of this previously unknown fact, we were ushered out. I found myself too exhausted to think about it much after that, and stumbled to my dorm to collapse upon my bed, and sleep for as long as I was able.


	4. Week Three, Troubled Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery, alcohol, Plague Doctors...

I awoke to a pair of smoked-out lenses staring directly into my eyes, and a beak nose-to-nose with me. I knew better than to move suddenly when coming face-to-face with a Plague Doctor, and unconsciously my body tensed tight, and I was still as a church mouse. Heavy breathing replied to me from behind the mask, and a heavier, waxen glove took my face by the jaw and moved it side to side, so that the doctor may study me further. Slowly, careful not to be too obvious, my off-hand wandered to my balisongs, still in my jacket pocket, my jacket hanging upon the bed post. As I was about to grasp one, the doctor released my face, and stood up straight before trudging over to her own bed. From the cabinet adjacent, they pulled vial of some viscous, dark liquid, and placed it gently on my lap as I stared at them in bemusement. As I sat staring, trying to look past the smoked lenses and into their eyes, they pressed their finger to my nose, giggled, then wandered off out of the room, leaving me to consider their unsolicited and suspicious gift. I pocketed the vial cautiously, watching them as they left, and pulled my coat over myself, making sure not to be caught unarmed again.

I spied a wax-sealed summons upon my cabinet, and opened it with a certain sense of dread. The idea of venturing back into the catacombs, or indeed into any of the dungeons that dotted the old estate, made me want to flee in instinctual terror, preferring to be eviscerated in those woods that surrounded us than face the smothering depths again. Slicing open the top with one of knives, I carefully, reluctantly pulled the message from the envelope. Much to my relief and joy, the summons was not in fact a call to duty, but an invested tab at the tavern of nine hundred sovereign crowns, for my use only. To temporarily kill my mind and drown my thoughts in oceans of ale did appeal right then, and much as I disliked the vulnerability of intoxication, I disliked the idea of spending a week stewing in my thoughts far more. With the lightest spring in my step, I made my way to the pub, thinking of all that I could order with that many crowns; more crowns, I must admit, than I had ever possessed at any one time. I briefly considered the vast sums that the fair lady must obtain from our expeditions, and was slightly embittered at the thought. None of the effort, none of the pain did she invest in the expeditions, and yet the lion's share of the spoils was hers to keep. As I was thinking along these lines, on the way down, a voice called to me.  
"She doesn't spend any of it on herself, if that's what you're thinking," he said, and I whipped in the direction of voice. Sitting there was a young man, scarcely more than a boy and definitely my junior, feeding pidgeons with a loaf of bread, a shepherd's crook resting on his shoulder. Black bandages were wrapped around his head, including his eyes but barring his nose and mouth and ending above his forehead. From the top emerged a shock of black hair. He wore peasants clothes; warm, plain and woolen.  
"How did you know I was thinking about that?" I asked quickly, advancing on him.  
"I didn't, I just knew you were about to go complain about it down the pub, and thought I'd spare you the looking like a drunken arse before you did," he said quietly. Strangely, despite his blindfolding bandages, he seemed to know precisely where the pidgeons were, and held out handfuls of crumbs to feed them. Incautiously, they approached, and ate straight out of his also-bandaged palm. I considered him suspiciously.  
"How can you be so sure of that?" I asked, curious despite myself.  
"Because now that we're having this conversation I can't see it happening anymore," he responded casually, as a pidgeon jumped into his awaiting hand. He stroked its head with one finger, no mind paid to me at all. On one level, to be so casually ignored annoyed me. On the other hand, his disregard put me at ease, as it implied he had no designs on me.  
"What's your name?" I asked, and finally he turned to me and smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth. The hand that was not occupied with a pidgeon was reached out in my direction. I took it cautiously, and we shook.  
"Cassidy Verit, and I'm pleased to meet you, Amelia Van Der Negge," he chirped cheerfully before retracting his hand to take up his crook. He placed the pidgeon at the top of it, and it remained there, like a useless, fat and purely ornamental sentry. While I was still considering how he would have learned my name, he tottered off awkwardly, his movement stunted by a crooked spine and a noticeable limp. I tried not to consider him too much while drinking afterwards, but his preternatural insight had me curious. How much did he know? How much more did he know about me, specifically? I would have to find out, in time. For now, I was ordering pint after pint, with the tall, dark bartender grimacing with every one after the fifth. It was usual of barmen to underestimate my tolerance due to my small stature, but I had burned through a barrel by myself before I finally collapsed upon the countertop. He told me the next day, as they opened and I arose from my slumber, that I had slept like a babe, and that the plague doctor had watched over me while I slept. The thought of this filled me with anxiety, and I learnt my lesson, making sure to drink in moderation enough to keep my wits about me.

Often I found myself considering the masked doctor and the crippled boy, between stupours and glasses, and also found that my considerations kept coming back to that vial of dark, viscous medicine the doctor had given me. In my more intoxicated and less wary states, I had found myself considering its consumption as a matter of curiosity, but would quickly overrule such senselessness, my basic survival instinct only just overpowering my drunken and foolish need to know. The Plague Doctor would regularly arrive at the tavern, and drink nothing, only watching me from a booth across the room, head rested in hands and elbows rested on the table, a plate of food before her that would remain untouched, going from hot, to warm, to cold as she focused on me and only me. It was the most singularly unnerving thing I experienced all week, and I could not truly relax while she was around. On the Friday, I drank too much, and the fear I felt came to a boiling point. In fit of paranoid rage I called to her from the across the bar, pulling the vial from my breast pocket and uncapping it.  
"Is this what you want you creepy quack?!" I had screamed in slurred tones, as I downed the whole thing. While I was cursing myself for such shortsighted and impulsive recklessness, the Plague Doctor jumped up in her seat, body language all giddy, and clapped excitedly. I glared at her in drunken bemusement as she ran over and hugged me tightly, before she made a rapid exit, and I spied her running back up to the manse. My grip relaxed around the balisong I had grabbed when she came towards me, and I fell backwards, fainting.

When I awoke that morning, I saw the bandaged boy standing over me, looking down, leaning heavily on his crook. I blinked once or twice, and gripped my head as morning light flooded the room. While leaning down with considerable effort and placing a glass of water by me, he spoke.  
"Have you figured out what it did yet?" he asked casually, tapping his fingers on the shaft of his staff. My blurred vision came into focus, and I sat up, taking the water slowly.  
"What what did?" I spat spitefully, drinking the water desperately.  
"What the vial you drank did, Amelia," he explained with the slightest exasperation. I remembered my earlier stupidity with a start and cursed myself internally, before my vision snapped back to the boy and my eyes narrowed once more into a glare.  
"No I haven't, I haven't been conscious long enough, now unless you have anything to tell me, sod off, I'm not in the mood for conversation," I said as I stood, shaking my way to my feet. It was Saturday, and I had to be ready in case I received a call to duty tomorrow. I had almost run the bar tab dry anyway. Cassidy did not budge an inch and simply watched me patiently as I got to my feet. My stare was brought against him, and he sighed.  
"It was just a sleeping tonic, I think she gave it to you as a gift," he said, and passed me a familiar knife. I looked within my coat pocket, and found I was missing a balisong. I snatched it off him, but softened my stare. That was helpful information, at least. It would lessen the anxiety.  
"...Thank you," I said reluctantly.  
"No worries," he replied, and once more limped off out the door.

When I returned to my own bed for the first time all week, I found another summons by it, and with the same caution of before I opened it, and looked within. Once more, I was met with relief as I found it was simply a call to the guild and smith, so that they could further train my skills and hone my weapons and armour respectively. I went eagerly, and received instruction. The guildsmen were nice enough, though they were harsh instructors with high expectations. I did not wish for any less though, as I wished to grow stronger, so that I could more readily and easily encounter and combat the creatures that inhabited the cavernous depths of the old manor. At the forge, the bearded and muscular smith looked over my equipment, a wooden pipe clenched between his teeth and his finger and thumb at his chin. With his offhand he picked up and whirled my balisongs, observing the rusted handles and the rustier blades, stained with improperly cleaned blood. The mechanism of my small crossbow was also tested; the string and bow flicked and bent, the rotators and wheels spun and the trigger and catch checked. When he was done looking over everything, he set them upon the table, looked to me, and deliberately spoke.  
"With the current facilities, I can't do anything too spectacular," he said slowly, "but I can clean up those knives of yours, and lubricate and fix up that crossbow a bit too."  
"That sounds fine," I said, and he nodded, taking the lot. I waited in the sweltering heat and the fire-lit darkness as night fell and the old smith worked, his skilled hands and powerful body evident in his craft. He was impressive indeed, and when he handed back my weapons I was pleased with his work, and left with a newfound confidence.  
When I returned to my bed for the final time that week, I found a third letter. This one was clearly not a summons; it was not sealed, most obviously, and the envelope was far grubbier. My name was not written on it in a delicate and ladylike manner, as was Lady Blaecleah's habit, but in a scrawl, a scrawl seemingly so quickly and carelessly written as to almost make the words 'To dear Amelia' illegible. I looked over to where the plague doctor lay sleeping, fully clothed and with her beak sticking in the air comically. I pulled the message out and began to attempt to read. It read:

"Dearest Amelia,  
Yes, that was exactly what I wanted! Thank you so much for accepting my gift. It meant a lot to me; you look so tired and I only wanted to help. I am sorry that I could not tell you this directly; my medical suit makes it difficult to communicate, and the miasma in this place is so thick as to force me to wear it constantly. I hope you will understand, and that we may grow closer as time passes. I look forward to working with you!"

Beneath this message was an unusually well rendered and accurate drawing of a human heart. I considered for a moment that she had likely misinterpreted the convention of drawing hearts on letters to show one's affection for the recipient. She had signed it 'Dr Delilah Yewtree', and drawn a curious picture beneath. It seemed to be a rendering of her mask, but it had worrying smile across it, just beneath the beak. I looked up from the message and stared at the opposite wall, puzzled and amused. When I turned to look at her again, she was sitting, cross legged, with her head in her hands. After I had looked at her for a second, she seemed to blow me a kiss. I was beyond confusion at that point, and could not help but smile, which garnered a giggle from her. 'What a bizarre creature' I thought to myself, then fell backwards into a lying position, and fell unsoundly asleep.  
The next morning, I awoke to a call of duty on my bedside table and Ajjak shuffling his way into the room, his greasy dark hair hanging past his shoulder and a yellowing white vest and trunks replacing his usual attire. His attention turned to me, and his expression flipped immediately and insincerely from placid exhaustion to that smile of his.  
"We are blessed to journey into those depths, my friend," he said, the madness stirring in his eyes that I had seen while we were in the cavern together.  
"Why?" I asked, too tired to regard him with the spite and caution I usually would.  
"Because death itself has made this place its home," he said as his smile widened, and the madness burned brightly, purple sparks firing off in his irises. I tried not to be too unnerved, and failed, as he collapsed into his bed. I shrugged on my coat, and made my way to the mouth of the warrens, where our next expedition would be taking place.


	5. Week Four, Predator, Prey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Warrens are no place for a lady.

As with the ruins, Lady Blaecleah was standing at the mouth of this dungeon. Here the mud was thick and wet, and she had sunken in to her ankles, and was regarding this state of affairs with stately distaste as I arrived. When she looked up and saw me, her expression switched to a smile, as I was beginning to notice was her habit upon seeing me. Wordlessly, she pointed to a nearby tree branch some four feet off the ground, where four packs were hanging. I took one, and climbed into the tree to await the other three. I looked down at her, rooted in her spot and fidgeting, unable to pace and just staring at her timepiece, impatiently waiting for the others to arrive. This time, I did not know who would be accompanying us, but had my suspicions. Cassidy would require on the job training, for instance, and would likely be accompanying us for this mission, and the Plague Doctor had had her week of relaxation in town, and so would likely be joining us too. As for the fourth, I could not say for sure, but hoped it would be Ezekiel; I had taken a shine to him in the ruins, and his presence would be a comfort to me. As we waited, I desired to inquire as to the nature of the pests in the warrens as opposed to the ruins.  
"What manner of quarry will we find in this foul place, my lady?" I asked, and she snapped out of her trance of impatience to stare at me blankly, not fully recognising what I had said. I spared her the embarrassment of asking me to repeat myself, and did so confidently.

"All manner of foul things inhabit this place of filth and rot, to tell you truthfully," she said, turning her eyes to the sewer-like mouth of the place, "The everspawning swinefolk rule it mostly, and their artifice and marks can be seen across its length. But also within are maggots, spiders, bandits and all manner of scavengers and carrion feasters that crawl across corpses as a standard. I understand that the name of the 'corpse-eater' caterpillars is disturbingly literal, and they will take pains to make you their preferred meal," with that somewhat threatening ending she looked me dead in the eye. I found myself taken aback.  
"Do not take this place lightly; it is even more so a place of death than the catacombs, and the things that live in it will not be so kind as to leave you a corpse to bury like my ancestors," she finished, then entered back into her impatience. As she did, Cassidy took his shambling steps into the bog, and even without instruction took his backpack from the tree.  
"You don't have to give me the introductory speech, ma'am, I've heard it already," he said to no one in particular, and the fair lady smiled.  
"I suspected as much. I am sure you will be a fine addition to the reclaimers, Mr Verit," She said still looking at her watch, "look after Amelia in those tunnels, would you?"  
Cassidy turned to me and flashed me that crooked grin of his. My wounded pride and my jealousy at the fair lady already taking a shine to him reared their ugly heads.  
"Will do miss, I've been trying to do so already," he said, then looked away from me and stood, staring and leaning upon his crook, shin-deep in shit. A short boy he was, taller than me but far shorter than Lady Blaecleah, who stood with the height expected of the noble house Blaecleah. Though I must admit that I may have merely perceived him as short, such was the receding nature of his posture and the severity of his spinal crook. I wondered briefly if he ever found comfort, or if his life was a constant struggle against such a basic and difficult deformity. Given his low birth, the fact that he was not killed as a boy so as to prevent him from wasting food through life was a miracle. Farmers in these parts had little patience for those that could not work for their weight in wheat, and I had heard tell of many deformed or runtling youths being taken to the barns and having their brains dashed out by grimfaced, uncaring and pragmatic fathers. Indeed, I suspected that Cassidy, despite his name and his black hair, so particular to the people of Saksenger and Blaecleah county, was not from these parts, and was not even a peasant despite his garb. His speech was too well put together, and his accent too similar to that of the fair lady. Peasants in these parts were barely intelligible to those who had received any kind of scholarly education in language, rather than just learn from the speech of their parents. I suspected him a bastard, cared for by the unseen hand of a noble father or mother. With this suspicion, others arose. If only I could see beneath those bandages of his, I might be able to confirm some of them. But while I considered him, and while my thoughts turned to his face, the third member of our party arrived.

Dr Delilah Yewtree was an odd sort indeed. While the rest of us had trudged down here, the waxed nature of her uniform allowed her to move with ease through the swampy ground, and move with ease she did, with the slightest spring in her step and body language all giddy. It was a curious sight to see indeed, someone so merrily skipping down to such a horrifying and dreadful place as this. But Yewtree had this way about her that implied to you a sort of obsession and joy of the morbid and the diseased, and I suppose the idea of entering such an infectious and stinking part of the old manor as this filled her with enthusiasm. What a curious juxtaposition she was; asocial and disconcerning, yet disconcertingly friendly and cheery. Obsessively clean and ablutophillic, yet so terribly interested and concerned with the morbid, the filthy, the rotten and the infected. Such a dissonance of character made her unpredictable, to say the least, and worried me to a degree. It was difficult to account for jokers in the deck, and disliked playing games with them. Though at the same time I could not help but find myself with an uncertain affection for the doctor, light-hearted and willing to help. It was nice to encounter someone who seemed to just want to help, no matter how disconcerting they may be. I wanted to try and trust Dr Yewtree, I truly did, but I found myself stuck on her oddity and unable to move away from it in my mind.

As I was lost in my consideration of the good doctor, the fourth member of this mission's party arrived. My earlier curiosity was satisfied by one look at him; he was tall and broad, and long, red hair was tied into a pony tail behind his head. I took him, even before he removed the helmet to reveal a scarred, bearded face with emerald eyes, as a native of Heesway. A bounty hunter to be sure, trained in the legendary mercenary corps of that cold and terrible land, with its cold and terrible men and methods of advancement. With a vile smile strung across his face and a twinkle in his eye like a dagger in the dark, he loomed over Lady Blaecleah, and looked to the warren entrance, then around at all of us.  
"Fucking really, Emi?" he said in a voice that I felt in my sternum. Lady Blaecleah's facial expression shifted ever so slightly, to the look one might give a quarrelsome hound.  
"Yes, really, my dearest Val. Now pick up your bag and introduce yourself to your companions," she said with a stern tone. The savage gave her a glare that could split a log, and for a moment there was tension, before he shrugged and broke once more into that grin that didn't reach his eyes.  
"Fine, I'll carry a cripple, a runt and a bird through pigfucker infested terriotory, if it is what your heart desires my lady," he said flippantly. I was not one for formality or pompous nobility, but I could not help but feel a twinge of annoyance at the disrespect this ogre was paying the fair lady. Despite my misgivings about the response, Lady Blaecleah broke into a smile, and patted him on a bicep bigger than her head. Trudging over to me, the grin gone from his face and replaced by a look of tired contempt, we made acquaintance.  
"What's your name, runt?" He said with unimpressed airs. I wanted to break his nose.

"Amelia Van Der Negge, ogre," I replied before catching myself. His contempt shifted to rage, and he snatched me from the tree by the collar. I held onto my hat as he pulled me closer to his face. A terrible fury welled in within those bright green mirrors. I tensed and prepared for some sort of impact as I stared at my own reflection. Then, as soon as it had come, it drained, and with it the smile returned. His other hand, the palm as big as my face, took me by the jaw and turned my head this way and that, to allow the brute easy analysis. I restrained myself, and eventually he let go. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped me into the bog and clapped me on the back. While I was momentarily winded, genuine amusement came across his countenance.  
"A runt with fire. I like that. I like you, runt," he growled, before leaning in close once more, "try not to disappoint me, alright?"  
I readjusted my hat and nodded quietly, nothing more wounded than my pride, as Lady Blaecleah had watched this little exchange with only the mildest concern. I wondered briefly if she would've stopped him from killing me if he had intended to. While I licked my wounds, he turned to Cassidy. The little cripple looked up at him and smiled with ill-placed confidence. Perhaps it was his blindness, or perhaps it was overconfidence, but he seemed completely unafraid of the great, ugly and most of all powerful specimen that stood before him. The bounty hunter seemed to realise soon that he could not intimidate the cripple so easily as he could intimidate me, and so gave a short sharp laugh, and ruffled the little shock of black hair on top. He was testing us then, I supposed. To see if we'd break. An interesting introduction tactic.

Delilah succeeded most spectacularly of all, I think, in his tests. Her only response to his approach was to look him up and down, to grope and probe and prod him, all of which only served to baffle and bemuse him. But unlike most brutes I had encountered, his response to a confusing entity was not to pummel it, but to respond with a joyous affection. When Dr Yewtree was quite done with her examinations, he poked her in the corset, which produced a giggle from her as she replicated his action. I would begrudgingly call it 'sweet', perhaps, if I did not see the hunger in his action. It was worrying, to be honest, to see one so innocent and affectionate as Delilah be the target of such insidious lust. I thought better than to call attention to this, and eventually they ceased to amuse eachother quite so much. The bounty hunter turned around, seemingly satisfied.  
"They'll do," he announced, "but there better be a good meal and good entertainment when I get home tonight," he continued, turning to look Lady Blaecleah in the eye once more. This time, Lady Blaecleah gave the closest to a genuine smile I had ever seen.  
"As there always is, my betrothed," she said with a smile, "now get to work," she concluded, as she began her march up to the manse, quick to be anywhere but here. I didn't try to understand if she was joking about any kind of marital ties between she and this beast of a man. I didn't need it affecting my concentration.  
"My name is Valrak Valraksson," he called out to us as he moved towards the mouth of the warrens, the great sewer pipe that stank of filth and rot.  
"Never call me by my last name, never joke about it, and stay behind me. These are your basic instructions, if you cannot follow basic instructions I will not put up with you in my team and you can get taken by the pigfuckers for all I care," he raved on at the mouth as he waited for us to catch up, before slamming his helmet over his head with a flourish and marching right in. We followed without hesitation. There was something of a challenge in his manner.

Those warrens were a terrible place, to be sure, even more aligned to my fears and weaknesses of stomach than the ruins. People butchered and lain across dinner tables littered the place. More than once a child's twinkling dead eyes stared back at me from a cart filled with human meat. The swinefolk, 'pigfuckers' as Valrak so eloquently referred to them, were accurately and literally named; they were pigs that walked like men, and treated us as we treated pigs. There was something in knowing that your opponent saw you as nothing more than walking meat. It was like being hunted again. Like being stuck in the forests of home, dense with creatures whose only desire was to make a hearty meal of you. I was seemingly the only one who was truly unnerved by this; Yewtree was protected from experiencing any real strain from witnessing these horrors by her scientific curiosity regarding the pigs that walked like men. Cassidy too was unaffected, because he was blind, willing and able to go without seeing the horrors we moved through while still knowing his way. Though I did see him wince and retch when Valrak would go digging through the dinner carts for food, the noise of which made my usually strong stomach complain. Delilah had some curious purification methods, and insisted the meat she reclaimed for us from the dinner carts was not human. I briefly wondered where the swine would have gotten such fine veal if she was telling the truth. 

Valrak informed us that his presence was the indication that this was not an exploration mission, as he didn't 'do that map making shit', in his own words. Our purpose here was to wipe out as many of the swinefolk as we could in this area before finding our way back to the surface. Pest control, he called it, and it seemed accurate. The vermin down here, like rats, seemed to be in far greater numbers than we could ever know; I got the distinct feeling that there would be more to swiftly replace those we had slain. Seemingly the expert on these creatures, I asked him where they came from that so many could exist and yet more could come to replace them. He shared with me several theories, though in uncharacteristic uncertainty he admitted he was not sure if any were true. It was held that the swinefolk had come about as a result of Lord Blaecleah's experimentation with the invocation of diabolic entities. These entities would enter from some other dimension, from beyond the veil, into the pigs, and twist them, shaping them into their own image. Over time, the demons came to take the forms of men, in a sort of mockery of Lord Blaecleah. They fought with such suicidal confidence, Valrak posited, because their bodies were cages that served to keep them trapped in our reality with us. Where more came from he had less to say about, though he cited certain phenomena that could be correlated. Their irregular excursions into the town to snatch men and women from their beds. The amount of human corpses found with broken pelvises and torn guts, where most other parts were intact or butchered. The conclusion it pointed to was too gruesome for even Valrak to say, but his implication was all too clear. I felt no guilt for the genocide we were performing.

All sections had been cleared of infestation, we packed up and left, packs laden with treasures that we had picked from the quickly festering corpses of the already half-rotten swines. Valrak clapped each of us on the back for a job well done and for holding out against the horrors of the warrens. He admitted that he had grown calloused to them with repetition, but he could appreciate their horror to those who had not encountered them before. His approval left me with an uncomfortable combination of pride and disgust, that I could look upon dozens of butchered human corpses and hold fast. No one who was still in full possession of their minds and humanity could do that, not without losing one or both in the process. I didn't go to bed that night. I stayed outside the warrens, and kept a watch, sniping any pigs that left the mouth. I did what little I could to prevent any small amount of the horrors I had seen in those tunnels from being perpetrated. But eventually there were too many, and I was forced to retreat into the trees and watch as they passed beneath, obviously off to all sorts of grotesque deeds in the dead of night. I slept in the tree, and tried not to let the squealing of pigs haunt my nightmares.

I failed.


	6. Week Five, Implication, Apathy

I awoke in the canopy the next morning, daylight streaming through the breaks in leaves and onto my face. I realised too late that it was possible I would be called to duty this morning, and with no intention of disappointing the fair lady, I made my way down from the tree and ran back to the manse to check my bedside table. Sure enough, I found an envelope sealed with the crow and tower of the Blaecleah family seal. Reluctantly, I sliced open the envelope, and looked inside. Much to my surprise and joy, it was a refreshment to my bar tab, though this time the amount had been raised by fifty sovereigns, a fact that filled me with joy. It showed she cared. It showed that she knew how hard it was down in the tunnels. Clutching the letter happily, I marched my way out of the dorm and into the town. The dorm had been empty when I arrived, so I assumed that my fellow reclaimers were either on duty or in their respective places of recreation. This suspicion was confirmed somewhat when I saw Valrak emerge from the brothel, half naked and scar-ridden as his face implied, with his eyes glazed over and a stupid smile on his face. He saw me as I entered the pub proper, and gave a nod of recognition, before lighting up a pipe and taking a puff or two. I didn't lend him too much consideration. If I could, I would avoid interacting with him aside from professional instances.

Pushing my way into the bar-room, I was surprised to find that the place was filled with local townsmen, joking and drinking and gaming all. I edged my way through, holding myself in and my hat to my chest to avoid the snatching hands of jocular drunks, and made it to the bar. I ordered and drunk and watched as the revelry occurred around me. It seemed the greatest density was around the usually disused games table in the centre of the pub.  
"What's all this fuss about, Mark?" I asked the bar man, as he handed me my ale.  
"Anniversary of Lord Blaecleah's death and the storming of the manor," he replied gruffly, refilling my tankard after I had finished downing my drink, "tradition in these parts is to fill up a group of scarecrows, dress them up as the nobby bastard, and burn 'em, dancing around that cursed statue in the center of town while you do it," he exposited, and I nodded thoughtfully, downing my pint again, and demanding another refill. I looked out the window and saw children playing, wielding twigs as swords and wearing their shirts about their heads like hoods, bare and pale chests exposed to the wind. I wondered briefly if they were in imitation of the zealot, the leper, or some other character I had yet to meet. Then I saw her, descending from the chapel steps.

She was a thin, wispy, waiflike thing, dressed in plain brown robes and with her head bowed low. From the brim of her hood I could see dirty blonde, messy hair poking from her head. Small in stature she was, perhaps just barely taller than I, and with the kind of walk that displayed airs of grace and nobility. When she passed the children, they stopped and looked up at her, dropping their weapons. She pat their heads affectionately, the continued to make her way to the bar. When she was near the door, down the chapel steps came running a second stranger to me. His tunic was a noble blue, a colour I recognised immediately as being the national colour of Farnlund. I had come to associate the colour with barns and houses alight in the night, lands sacked and pillaged by armies of uncaring, disciplined and zealous soldiers, cold as a blade between the ribs. My fear response kicked in immediately upon seeing it, and as was my habit I took stock of the fellow. A ginger flecked brown door-knocker goatee surrounded his mouth, and his hair was curly and long, flowing out behind in cascades. He caught up to her, and for a moment my heart was gripped by concern for the stranger, but when she turned and saw him approaching, she simply raised her hand. The running ceased, and instead he now walked towards her. She caressed his face, then pulled him into a hug before taking him by the hand and leading him into the bar.

When they entered, the atmosphere quietened, and all the villagers turned to look at them. Those that they passed motioned the symbol of the light over themselves and bowed their heads. I briefly wondered what about these two would draw such reverence to a god so readily forgotten until then, when it struck me. Plain clothing. The colours of Farnlund. The two beds in the dorm. Here they were then. The last of our little company. A vestal, and a crusader. As all the pieces slid together in my head, the vestal moved through the crowd towards me, parting the other bar patrons like grains of sand to make her way to me. The man, taller than Lady Blaecleah but shorter than Valrak, followed behind her, head bowed and eyes twitching from right to left, daring the townsfolk to resist them. It was curious, to see such tranquil peace and confidence immediately juxtaposed by such aggressive anxiety and watchfulness. The vestal took a seat next to me on the bar, and the crusader stood behind her, facing the other patrons. The silence passed, and once more the patrons returned to their revelry and devilry, stuffing the sack man full of straw in preparation for their morbid celebrations. The barman smiled at the vestal, and wordlessly pulled a glass from the rack, filled it with wine, and placed it before her. She took a sip, and returned the smile.

"Thank you, Mark," she said in a voice as sweet as honey and as light as birdsong.  
"Anything for you, my lady," he said in unusually polite tones, at odds with his standard speech to me and others. I could not help but be somewhat smitten with that voice myself.  
"Get me something to eat, Mark," the crusader said without looking at the barman, who scowled at him with unrestrained contempt, before turning into the kitchen. The vestal turned to me.  
"You're one of the new ones, yes? Amelia Van Der Negge?" she said, her accent growing more obvious with every word. I pegged her for a Jormagnian, and my confusion grew. What were these two doing together, in such obvious union, when one was Jormagnian and the other was a Farn? By all conventional sense they should revile eachother, yet even now the woman was turning her companion away from his watch and to her back, drawing her arms around him while his eyes continued to flit about searching for danger while embracing her. A watchful and dedicated protector, to be sure. I must've been thinking about it longer than I thought, or been obvious with my confusion, because the vestal repeated my name. I was brought out of my thoughts long enough to nod. This seemed to please her, and she continued.  
"Pleasure to meet you. My name is Andrea, and this is my husband, William," she said, and motioned to the man draped across her. At the mention of his name, William's flitting eyes stopped to focus on me, and he gave me a gruff nod and acknowledgement. Still confused and not quite prepared to deal with what was in front of me, I just nodded back.  
"Pardon William's lack of manners, he's a worrisome thing, aren't you dear?" Andrea continued, seemingly more to tease him than to tell me anything. William frowned at her, then released his embrace and returned to watching the other patrons. I found myself devoid of things to say, and rather awkardly shifting in my seat, grasping for a response.  
"I just wanted to welcome you. We've been here a while, and it's always nice to see a new companion. We hope you'll stick around for a while," she spared me by saying, before finishing her drink, and standing to take William by the hand once more.  
"We'll see you again soon," she finished, and led William out through the crowed once more. The barman returned with a ham shank, and cursed under his breath once he saw that they had left. I ended up getting it, and the cost came out of their tab; it was only fair, Mark had said.

I tried not to think about that odd pair too much for the rest of the week, instead preferring to spend my time drinking myself into stupors at the bar. Unlike the last week, my relaxation was much more complete; there was no Delilah watching me constantly, leaving me uneasy and on edge. There was no Cassidy, confusing me and causing my mind to race over my considerations of him and his nonsense. There was simply me, the barman, and the bar, and all I needed to do was drink enough to lose myself inside the blacked out chambers of my own mind. That was a form of temporary death, I suppose, and a temporary death is occasionally necessary to escape the pressures of an everincreasingly temporary life. So I say with no shame that every night I would end up passed out on the bar-room floor, only to awake the next morning for a little hair of the dog to keep my spirits light. I spoke to no one, and I believe there was no one around for me to speak to. Occasionally, while I was still closer to sobriety than the constant state of black-out intoxication I often ended up in, I would see Cassidy, William, Andrea and Ezekiel making their way from the manse to the chapel. I could guess at their respective activities, but to speak in all truthful manner, I did not care, and did not care to know. Their methods respective of relaxation were unimportant to me, and I was too concerned with my own need for respite and rest to scout out and spy upon their respective vices and virtues of rejuvenation.

It was not until I was headed to bed on the Sunday night that the worrying implication of Andrea's words occured to me. How long did she say that they'd been here? 'A while?' But Ajjak, Ezekiel, the Zealot and I had all arrived on the same bus, and Cassidy had come later. That would mean that, before us, only Valrak, Delilah and those two would've been here. But given the stress and strain that expeditions inflicted, all would need a week to recover at the least, meaning that expeditions could only be mounted fortnightly. This could not have been the case for, by local accounts, expeditions had been happening weekly for many moons now, where only one cycle had passed while we had been here. This implied, by necessity, that others had come here before our newly arrived troupe. But where were they now? Sure, they could have just left, but considering the contract made when entering the Reclaimers precluded the leaving of the village, and that the only safe way out of the hamlet was the Blaecleah coach and road service, that would necessitate travelling by foot; a dangerous, foolish and borderline-impossible task. When I raised this matter with Andrea, she gave a grim-faced and quiet response. Simple as it was, the casual manner with which she said it chilled me.  
"There were four before you arrived. They never came home."

I didn't sleep well that night, and that morning, received a summons upon my nightstand. A call to duty.


End file.
